For Branksome's chiefs had in battle stood,

To fence the rights of fair Melrose;

And lands and livings, many a rood,

Had gifted the shrine for their souls' repose.

III.

Bold Deloraine his errand said;

The porter bent his humble head;

With torch in hand, and feet unshod,
And noiseless step, the path he trod;

The arched cloisters, far and wide,

Rang to the warrior's clanking stride;

Till, stooping low his lofty crest,

He entered the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle *,

To hail the Monk of St Mary's aisle.

Aventayle, visor of the helmet.

"The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me; Says, that the fated hour is come,

And that to-night I shall watch with thee,

To win the treasure of the tomb."

From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,

With toil his stiffened limbs he reared;

A hundred

4

years had flung their snows

On his thin locks and floating beard.

V.

And strangely on the Knight looked he,

And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide;

"And, dar'st thou, warrior! seek to see

What heaven and hell alike would hide?

My breast, in belt of iron pent,

With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn;

For threescore years, in penance spent,

My knees those flinty stones have worn;

Yet all too little to atone

For knowing what should ne'er be known.

Would'st thou thy every future year

In ceaseless prayer and penance drie,

Yet wait thy latter end with fear

Then, daring warrior, follow me!"

VI.

"Penance, father, will I none;

Prayer know I hardly one;

For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry,

Save to patter an Ave Mary,

When I ride on a Border foray:

So speed me my errand, and let me begone."

VII.

Again on the Knight looked the Churchman old,

And again he sighed heavily;

For he had himself been a warrior bold,

And fought in Spain and Italy.

And he thought on the days that were long since by, When his limbs were strong, and his courage was

high :

Now, slow and faint, he led the way,

Where, cloistered round, the garden lay;

The pillared arches were over their head,

And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead.

VIII.

Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright,

Glistened with the dew of night;

Nor herb, nor floweret, glistened there,

But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair.

The Monk gazed long on the lovely moon,
Then into the night he looked forth;
And red and bright the streamers light

Were dancing in the glowing north.

So had he seen, in fair Castile,

The youth in glittering squadrons start; Sudden the flying jennet wheel,

And hurl the unexpected dart.

He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright,

That spirits were riding the northern light.

IX.

By a steel-clenched postern door,
They entered now the chancel tall;

The darkened roof rose high aloof

On pillars, lofty, and light, and small;

The key-stone, that locked each ribbed aisle,

Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille ;

*

The corbells were carved grotesque and grim;

And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim,

With base and with capital flourished around,

Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound.

X.

Full many a scutcheon and banner, riven,

Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven,

*Corbells, the projections from which the arches spring, usually cut in a fantastic face, or mask,

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